


how do I feel by the end of the day

by 3HobbitsInATrenchcoat



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: 5+1 Things, Gen, Homelessness, Minor Injuries, Mullet Stan Pines, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pines Family Feels, Stan Pines Needs A Hug, Time Shenanigans, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:00:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26994820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3HobbitsInATrenchcoat/pseuds/3HobbitsInATrenchcoat
Summary: Stan's family cares for him more than he ever could have imagined. Five times his family helped him throughout the toughest years of his life, and one time he helped himself.
Comments: 100
Kudos: 147
Collections: Genuary 2021





	1. Mystery Knits

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is complete and clocks in at more than 14k words. It's a bit of a monster XD  
> Title taken from "With a Little Help From My Friends" by The Beatles

Stanley Pines sometimes wondered why he’s stuck around the Dakotas so long. It’s cold and full of snow and he hated every second of the trudging walk from work to the rundown motel he called his temporary home. He was pretty sure his left boot was developing a hole and it was only a matter of time before his thick wool socks thinned too much to be any use against the icy sludge that covered the sidewalks.

Sure, he could drive but that meant paying for gas and he could barely afford the motel as it was. He probably would have to leave by the end of the week anyway the way he was hemorrhaging money over a dubiously heated room and sheets so thin he could see his bruises through them. Moses, he hated this motel but it was better than being stuck in his car for the winter. He could barely afford the room but… he could afford treatment for frostbite far, far less.

It took a bit of fumbling with fingers stiff from cold, but Stan managed to fish his keys out of his pocket and shoulder the old door to his room open. It creaked ominously as the hinges protested doing their one damn job. If anything, the space beyond seemed just as cold as the outside air… even after shutting the door Stan could see his breath fogging in the sparsely furnished motel room. With a groan he flopped face-first onto the mattress, not even bothering to take off his coat. He did toe off his boots so he could slip his freezing feet under the thin blankets, but the relief provided was fleeting if it existed at all.

Stan shuddered and curled onto his side, wrapping his arms around himself to ward off the chill. He’d ask the front office to come look at the heater in the morning, but he was pretty sure the results would be the same as the last three times. Handyman would come in, bang around for half an hour, the heater would work for about a day and then go right back to tepid mediocrity.

Living out of his car wasn’t looking so bad anymore.

He’d just started to drift off, ignoring all the sore bruises that came with his line of work, when there’s a firm knock on the door.

“Aw, what now?” He grumbled, hauling himself to his feet and padding across the hard chilly floor to peer through the grimy peephole that sat low enough on the door he had to stoop uncomfortably. Beyond the hazy smear of countless people’s fingerprints he could just about make out a head of curly chestnut hair. No one he knew, so why were they at his door? Was it girl scout cookie season already? He’d have to let her down easy.

Fuck he missed Thin Mints.

Rubbing his tired eyes, he pulled the door open. “Look kid, I don’t have money for cookies, so why don’t you run along home?”

The kid on the other side of the door pulled herself to her full height, eyes widening a fraction to take in his appearance. Stan winced, he knew he looked rough. His evening shift at The Drunk Uncle hadn’t been the worst time he’d spent as a bouncer, but it certainly ranked up there. The split lip alone had probably left a rusty stain on his pillowcase. Judging from the way his head throbbed he probably had a nice shiner developing too.

He watched as her expression flickered from surprise to alarm and then settled into something so close to sorrow that Stan almost closed the door. He didn’t need or want a stranger’s pity. Then she blinked and the expression faded into a wide-eyed innocence.

“Oh, no! I don’t have cookies, but something much better!” The girl held out a package she’d been clutching to her chest as the door opened. “I made this for my Grunkle St… Steve! My Grunkle Steve. But it was a little too small. We saw you stumble in from down the street a little while ago and this motel has terrible heating so I thought you could use it!”

Stan took the offered package and looked quizzically at the girl before squinting across the parking lot at a shadowy figure leaning against the pool fence. They raised one hand in greeting, seeming almost familiar, but the dark and the drifting snowfall made it hard to pick out any features.

“Go on! Open it!” The kid bounced up and down, curls and too-big sleeves flying in excitement. “Everyone likes presents so we wrapped it up nice and proper! Dipper wouldn’t let me fill it with glitter though, he said it would make it itchy and infect everything you own.” She blew a raspberry and Stan couldn’t help but chuckle as he dug into the simple brown paper and twine.

“This Dipper sounds smart, he your brother or something?” The twine pulled free and Stan folded back the paper, uncovering soft navy wool.

Her next words made Stan’s heart twist a little, but he kept the smile mostly on his face. “More than a brother, he’s my twin! And he’s super smart, most of the time. Except the one time he…” she slapped a hand over her own mouth with alarming force.

“You alright there, kiddo?”

“Yep! I’m fine.” She grinned at him, though the lower half of her face was pink from cold and where she’d slapped herself. It was a little alarming. “Just can’t say too much… since you’re practically a stranger and all.”

Stan opened his mouth to agree with her but then the last bit of paper fell away to reveal his present. In the harsh light of the single bulb by the door the cloth was a deep blue-black but he could tell that it’s the perfect shade of navy to blend into darkness. Some kind of large pattern filled the front, if he squinted he could just make out the outline of what might be a large yacht picked out in black yarn. He ran his hand over the wool and marveled at how soft it felt under his fingers.

“This is really nice, are you sure you want to give it to me?” he said as he shook the sweater out and held it up. It looked like it might be a little big but… that way he could layer up underneath and he’d always enjoyed pulling his sleeves down over his hands.

“Of course.” The girl beamed at him. “It’s yours now! You’ll need it this winter.” She insisted with such certainty that Stan was momentarily thrown, feeling a frown grow across his face. She waved her hand at him dismissively. “That’s unimportant. What _is_ important is making sure the sweater fits! Go ahead! Try it on!”

She hopped adorably in place again and Stan couldn’t help but chuckle. “Alright alright, hold your horses.” Bracing himself against the cold he struggled out of his coat, leaning back through the door to toss it across the end of the bed. With a shiver he pulled the warm wool over his head, feeling the ends of the sleeves fall over his hands just as he thought they would. The wool was thick and soft, especially in the full cowl neck he could burrow his face into if it got too cold.

Stan let himself bask in the warmth for a moment, but his eyes snapped open as he heard footsteps approaching. The man from the fence had come a little closer, hovering just outside the light of the streetlamps. Stan couldn’t see his face and his form was obscured by a long dark coat, but his voice was strangely familiar despite the gruffness that often accompanied age. “Mabel. We need to go. It’s getting late.”

“Aw, darn.” Mabel pouted for a moment before launching herself towards Stan. He wasn’t expecting the hug and her momentum almost knocked him over as her arms wrapped around his middle. “Take care of yourself, ok?” she muttered into the soft wool before pushing away from him and dashing across the parking lot.

“I will…” started Stan, rubbing the back of his neck and looking away. Then he blinked as a bright light flashed momentarily, putting the shadows of cars in sharp relief against the crumbling motel facade.

When he looked back, Mabel and her companion were gone.


	2. Don't Question Where the Money Came From

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been a few years since Mabel brought Stan a sweater, now someone else has dropped by.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally Ford wasn't going to be in this at all until his chapter... buuuuut...

Another bland cookie cutter motel room with another bland uncomfortable cookie cutter bed greeted Stan’s tired eyes as he hauled his uncooperative body through the door. With a muttered curse he flung his duffle bag onto the end of the bed, wincing as the motion jostled his other arm in its sling.

His stomach growled and his wince became an outright curse as he remembered he’d spent his last dollar on the bill for fixing up his fucking face. His nose probably wouldn’t heal right but at least he’d keep vision in both his eyes. That wouldn’t matter if he starved though, he needed to find work that wouldn’t re-break his arm…

All the thoughts running through his head piled up until he felt like his brain was full of radio static, the rush of his own thoughts not dissimilar to the rush of adrenaline during a particularly nasty boxing match. A boxing match like the one that had landed him in the hospital in the first place, costing him his last penny, costing him the ability to feed himself and put a roof over his head. He’d had to call in a favor to get this room because he didn’t want to be easy pickings in his car while he spent a few days recovering, but who knows what he would do when the favor ran out...

Stan became aware that his breathing had grown ragged in the still air of the room. He needed to clean up as best he could and try not to think for a little while. Running one hand over his stubble, careful not to bump his sore nose, he slowly made his way to the bathroom. According to the nurses he’d have to wait a day to shower – something about letting the stitches settle – but he could at least press a warm washcloth to his face and block out the world.

Doing things one-handed turned out to be a bit of a chore, but Stan finally managed to get a warm and damp-but-not-soggy washcloth draped over his face as he sank down into the single armchair in the corner of the room. He closed his eyes and let his other senses take over. The soreness of his injuries seemed omnipresent but he’d gotten a dose of the good stuff before leaving the hospital so he was probably set until tomorrow. They’d given him a prescription for painkillers but who knew when he would ever have the money to fill it.

So... touch was out of the question as a grounding sense. Stan sighed and pressed a little further into the soft cushions of the chair. Smell was also out. The motel room might be one of the cleaner ones he’d ever stayed in but it still smelled vaguely like the previous occupant’s cigar smoke and his own hospital-tinged body. Not a good combination.

That left… sound. Sound Stan could work with. He had relatively good hearing still, despite years as a boxer. Sure there was bit of a high-pitched background hum that had wormed it’s way into his head over the past few years but it wasn’t interfering with his life _yet_. With a sigh, Stan let the sounds of the room and the world beyond wash over him.

The room itself held nothing special, just a rattling old AC unit on it’s last legs and the drip of the bathroom faucets. A few doors down someone was watching tv or maybe listening to the radio at a pretty high volume. It was crackly and indistinct at this distance though, nothing worth paying attention to. The soothing repetition of cars rushing past outside caught Stan’s ears and he started to nod off to the low hum of machinery and rubber on asphalt. Just as the world started to fuzz to gray sleep static, footsteps passing his door jerked him into wakefulness.

“… sure this is the right place? What if he doesn’t get it?” The voice sounded like it belonged to a young boy, cracking a little on the question.

An older voice, somewhat familiar though Stan couldn’t quite place it, answered the kid. “I asked at the front desk, my boy. Plus remember that sensor I built last fall?” A sharp _tink_ , almost like someone tapping their fingernail on a watch face, met Stan’s ears. “He will get it, I’m sure of it.”

There’s a long pause, broken only by the sound of the cars on the road, and Stan almost thought the owners of the voices had moved on when the boy spoke again. They seemed to have stopped just outside his room and Stan felt a strange sense of déjà vu come over him.

“I’m just worried. What if I didn’t raise enough?” The kid sounded upset and Stan wondered what he was talking about. “I know… I know he’ll be fine but what if he isn’t?”

Another pause came from the other side of his door, then the adult spoke again, voice tired but gentle. “I promise, any amount helps when you have nothing, Dipper.”

Stan felt his breathing seize in his chest. He remembered a “Dipper.” He wore his sister’s sweater every day of winter. It had been a couple years, but he never forgot her kindness. Why would this kid have the same unusual name...

Stan’s thoughts were interrupted by a knock on his door followed quickly by a rustle as something was shoved forcefully under it. He scrambled out of his chair, flinging the washcloth onto a side table with a wet _splat_.

As he lay a hand on the door to wrench it open the boy asked, “Do you think he’ll be ok?”

“He has to be.” said the adult with a conviction that Stan knew all too well. It was the conviction of someone who knows that if they say something long and loud enough it will have to be true. The words hung in the air as Stan yanked open the door to find… the afterimage of a blinding light and not a single soul in sight.

Confused, he poked his head out of his room, looking around as if he could conjure the two speakers from midair. Had he hallucinated the entire thing? There were enough drugs in his system for that to be a possibility. But as he turned to go back inside, something crackled softly under his socked foot and he remembered the rustle as something had been shoved under his door.

That something turned out to be a plain brown envelope, “Stanley Pines” scrawled across the front in thick black marker. A chill ran down his spine. He hadn’t gone by that name in at least a year, maybe two. He’d burned it with the rest of his identity back in Jersey yet here it was, sitting innocently in his hands.

Swallowing his apprehension, Stan shut the door with his foot and tore open the envelope. Green spilled into his hand as he tilted the contents out and his eyes widened in shock, causing him to wince as the expression tensed the tender skin around his nose. At least a hundred dollars rested in his open palm, and that’s just what he could see, he could feel more still in the envelope. With shaky swear, Stan stumbled over to the desk and dumped out the rest of the contents. All told, it’s a couple hundred dollars, enough to buy gas and food and get back on his feet as soon as he’s recovered enough.

The room swam and Stan felt his eyes burning as hot tears pricked at the edges of his vision. Whatever this was, he wasn’t sure he deserved it. He was just a broken, lonely con-man, what had he done to gain the pity… no not pity, this didn’t feel like pity. The respect? The generosity. What had he done to gain the generosity of children?

Beneath the green bills, Stan saw a flash of color. Rubbing at his eyes with the back of his good wrist, he squinted at the desk. What was that, another hallucination? With trembling fingers he picked the thing out of the pile and the tears returned almost immediately.

He held in his hand a photograph, printed on unfamiliar glossy paper. He recognized a single person in the picture, a grinning girl in a blindingly bright sweater. Mabel, for it must be Mabel, was clearly taking the photo, one hand out of frame on the camera, the other pulling a blue and white cap down over the eyes of a boy that could only be her twin. Blurred in the background two gray-haired figures looked out at a lake, unaware that they were caught in the image.

Hand shaking, Stan flipped the photo over, half-expecting the back to be blank. Surprisingly, it was not. Blocky handwriting in blue ink covered the back, while someone had scrawled glittery pink hearts along the edges.

_I hope this is enough to help, it was hard to find money that would still be good. Mabel says hi and she hopes you still have your sweater. Please stay safe, and if someone in a weird jumpsuit asks… this photo doesn’t exist._

_-Dipper and Mabel_

Stan lowered the picture with a chuckle. He’s still not a hundred percent sure this wasn’t some sort of painkiller induced hallucination, but he gathered all the money back into the envelope and tucked it in the inner pocket of his duffle bag. If he wasn’t hallucinating it would make for a pleasant surprise in the morning.

Somehow, it was still there when he woke up and when he left town the following week the picture of the kids went in a place of honor in his car, just behind the photo of him and Ford.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! Quick question... do y'all want me to post every day or would you prefer a bit of a wait between chapters? I can do either or. I just know some people crave that anticipation.


	3. Most MREs are From Hell But This is a Special Kind of Awful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ford can't cook super well, but he can engineer food that will keep you alive ™️

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the shortest chapter of the lot. It was kind of what inspired this whole thing, but it was really hard to write. :/  
> Anyway, I caved and updated, mostly because Friday/Saturday/Sunday I might not have time to update at all XD

The first box mysteriously appeared mere days after he’d discovered he’d run out of food. It wasn’t a large box, didn’t take up much space, but it was a suspicious box in that Stan _didn’t know how it had gotten in_ _to_ _his car._

The side of the box read “emergency rations” in handwriting that looked similar to his own, but he knew for damn certain he’d never stocked up a box of the stuff. But by day three of his stomach growling, Stan had to admit that he’d rather risk poisoning from mystery food than starvation in the middle of the Mojave.

With a grumble he pulled off to the side of the road, the Stanleymobile rolling to an obliging halt in the patchy grass. Heat pricked at the back of Stan’s neck as he hauled himself out of the drivers seat and stomped around to the trunk.

“I know I saw it in here somewhere…” he grumbled to himself as he flung the trunk open and rummaged through his meager belongings. Underneath an unopened box of Sham Totals and the latest prototype of the Stan-Vac he found what he was looking for, an unassuming cardboard box full of unassuming brown paper packages. With a grumble he pulled one out and looked at it.

Stan hadn’t eaten many MREs in his life, but he had picked up a few here and there discounted at the occasional army surplus store. They were okay when all you needed to do was fill your belly. The resemblance between those MREs and the one he held in his hand began and ended at the name and the waxed brown paper that wrapped it. Unlike a regular factory packed and sealed military issue ready-meal, these were half the size of any Stan had ever seen and hand numbered with a simple description.

Curious and growing hungrier by the minute, Stan found the one labeled with a big “ONE – Peanut Butter and Jelly” scrawled across the front. He shut the trunk firmly and then sank down in the shadow of his car to sit leaning against one of the wheels. Flipping the packet in his hands a few times he weighed his options. He could continue to be suspicious and spend money on food instead of gas when he reached the next town. Whenever that happened to be. Or he could eat whatever this mystery “ration” turned out to be and maybe die.

In the end hunger won out. Stan ripped the packet open with his teeth, letting the contents slide into his open palms: a wax-paper wrapped vaguely cube-shaped blob that looked a little too close to a turd for Stan’s tastes, a jiggling bag of liquid labeled “H2O”, a few loose starburst candies, and a small crisply folded bit of paper. Gingerly, Stan unfolded the bit of paper.

 _Stanley_ _,_ it read in uniform typed letters. _The nutrient bar should provide you with all you need for a normal day’s energy. You may have to supplement more water. When you run out, I’ve included coordinates for another box in the last MRE._

Stan thought he should be feeling something other than grateful confusion. Fear, perhaps, that someone knows his name? Unease that the syntax is so familiar? It seems so like something Ford would have done but… Ford didn’t care anymore. And besides, Ford didn’t know where he was, there was no way he could have snuck a box of science-food into his car.

With a sigh, Stan tucked the note in his pocket and peeled back the corner of the “nutrient bar”. The smell that wafted out and hit his nose with the force of a physical punch certainly seemed like peanut butter and jelly. Aggressively so, even. Steeling himself, Stan took a hesitant nibble and narrowly avoided spitting it out.

“Suffering fuck,” he swore, scrabbling for the pouch of water and gulping down a blessedly tasteless mouthful. “Is this cardboard? That’s nasty.” He glared at the food clenched in his hand, fingers pressing dents into the formless paste. He could taste the hint of grape jelly and the essence of peanut butter but the overwhelmingly bland taste of processed grain overwhelmed everything else until only the texture and flavor of cardboard adjacent disappointment remained.

Stan let his head tilt back until it hit the side of the Stanleymobile with a hollow _thump_. He had enough money for gas or food, not both. The food promised to be filling, it didn’t promise to be appetizing. If someone was able to sneak food into his car without him knowing, it stood to reason that they could have found some other easier way of murdering him… The food probably wouldn’t kill him.

His stomach growled again and he groaned. No food at all would definitely kill him.

He ate the semi-moist chunk of cardboard peanut butter. Every bite was a struggle that he washed down with water, but when it was done he definitely felt full. He was grateful to the mystery benefactor for including starbursts because it took an hour and every single candy to get the taste and texture fully out of his mouth.

Not every flavor was as awful as that first one, Stan discovered over the next few weeks. None of them were particularly _good_ but they did keep him fed until he could get enough money for a proper meal.

It turned out that every packet contained roughly the same thing: a mostly bland nutrient bar, a bag of water (sometimes with powdered flavoring, sometimes not), a handful of small candies, and a note. Stan found himself looking forward to the notes the most. They were numbered, starting with the first bag, and usually typed out. Most of them read like oddly specific fortunes – “Double check the gas gauge” and “Call your Ma, she misses you” – but some of them were downright strange. Odd glyphs scrawled in black pen, indecipherable and leaving a chill down Stan’s spine. (It’s decades before he’s able to decipher the strange text, but the one that leaves him confused and grateful and more than a little bit filled with dread is the one that simply says, “Don't forget to check the third power dial from the left, please.”)

For now, none of the notes really made sense, but he kept them all anyway despite his unease. And every time he reached the bottom of the box he found another coordinate, unknowingly inching him closer to the west coast.


	4. That’s How I Casserole, Dude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan's family isn't just a brother and two niblings. He also has a dedicated son-ployee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyyy it's Monday! Which means I am back with a new chapter! I took the weekend off of posting because I work a seasonal haunt job but now it is posting time. :3

It was unimportant how Stan got thrown in jail in the first place (despite his innocence). It was equally unimportant how he got out (despite the bribery involved). The important thing was that he’d somehow scored a spot at a seedy halfway house in a rough part of town _and_ he’d managed to keep everything that had been in his car.

Small mercies.

He felt the itch to get out of the city as soon as possible, but he still had a few weeks of parole left before he could skip town without getting every cop within a 2 county radius involved in a manhunt. As it was he could barely take a piss without some plainclothes fuck hiding in the bushes outside the window.

Did cops in this dumb town have anything better to do with their time?

Stan supposed he maybe shouldn’t have taken the fall for some dumb kid in the wrong place at the wrong time, but he’d been a dumb kid once. He’d been in jail before, he knew he could handle it, who the fuck knew if some fresh-faced brat with a hungry look on his face and pockets full of dollar store granola could say the same. So he took the fall, went to jail for a bit while stuff got sorted out, bribed whoever he could with what little money he’d saved from eating nothing but mystery rations, and now he was cooling his heels in a house more roach than wall.

He supposed it could have been a lot worse. They could have laughed at him and left him in a cell for a year or two. Or taken the kid instead.

So, three days into his parole he stood in front of the filthy refrigerator in the filthier house and contemplated digging into his dwindling supply of nutrient bars instead of risking food poisoning from the leftovers the previous tenants had so graciously provided. The next batch would undoubtedly be somewhere nearby but he did not want to be performing what probably looked like a drug deal with this many cops this far up his ass.

Plus he was pretty sure the next bar was peanut butter and jelly again. He would put that experience off as long as possible.

He shut the refrigerator door with a resigned sigh and leaned his head against the handle of the freezer. The gentle thrum of the radiator unit made his teeth rattle a bit but it was a grounding sensation even as his thoughts spiraled. He just had to pick up a job bagging groceries or bouncing at that biker bar he’d seen down the street. Something small that would tide him over until he could get the hell out of dodge. He could do this, he’d done it a dozen times before.

Still stuck in his own head, Stan barely heard the knock on his front door. He almost passed it off as his imagination and then it came again, a little louder.

“Who the fuck…” muttered Stan under his breath, pushing away from the refrigerator and cautiously making his way down the narrow hallway. He peered through the smudged window next to the door, squinting at the broad figure on the other side. They didn’t look like a cop so Stan shrugged and pulled the door open. The individual on the other side let out a startled yelp, but managed to hang on to whatever it was they were carrying.

Stan raised an eyebrow, taking in the sight of a young Latino man in a tee-shirt and cargo shorts nervously shuffling his feet on the front stoop. He had some sort of cassarole clutched white knuckled between his fingers and his gaze darted nervously side to side as if watching out for someone. The minute he registered Stan standing in front of him he froze, eyes locking onto him and not looking away as his mouth dropped open a little.

“Yeah? Can I help you?” said Stan after a long moment had passed, the young man still taring wide-eyed at him. He leaned on the door jamb and crossed his arms. “Is this a social call, you expecting to get invited in for tea?”

“Oh!” The kid startled again and Stan had to suppress an amused snort. “Sorry sir you just look… well I wasn’t expecting… here, this is for you!” He shoved his offering forward and Stan caught some kind of spicy meaty aroma wafting from under the aluminum foil.

“What is it?” Stan’s mouth watered but he narrowed his eyes in suspicion all the same. Things rarely came free to men like him… if he ignored the sweater and the money and the goddamn nutrient bars. But those were from mystery people, this was just some young dude standing on the steps of his halfway house.

“Its… its…” the young man was clearly thinking hard, and Stan knew how to spot a lie, was prepared to spot a lie, but what tumbled from the kid’s lips as he squared his shoulders and took a breath had the ring of truth about it. “It’s a thank you, for helping my family.”

Stan wasn’t sure this young man looked related to the kid he’d taken the fall for last week but he really had no way to tell. He reached out and took the dish, distantly registering that it was still oven-warm. He looked around for one of the ever-present plainclothes cops before lowering his voice to answer.

“Kid has more of a future than someone like me. Better I take the fall than him. There’s really no need to thank me but… the gesture is appreciated.”

The young man on his doorstep tilted his head curiously, blinking confusion before smiling brightly and a little too broadly. “Don’t sell yourself so short, Mister… Sir. You mean a lot to more people than you know.”

Stan raised an eyebrow at him, wondering what he’d almost called him. “Not that I’m calling you a liar, kid, but I doubt that.” His stomach rumbled and he glanced down at the dish. “I better get this inside. Hurry home before your family starts to worry, it’s not safe out here at night.”

With one last nod towards the young man, Stan turned to go inside. He’d just pushed through the door when the kid called out behind him.

“We’re counting on you, Mister Pines!”

Stan almost dropped the casserole. The now familiar afterimage of light flashed as he spun around to see… nothing. No one. Not a single soul in the street. Only an oven-warm casserole in his arms and the echo of a near abandoned name ringing in his years as evidence that there ever _had_ been someone there.

“You’re loosing your mind, Stan.” He muttered to himself, hurrying inside and shutting the door behind him with a little more force than necessary. “You’re hearing things, he probably just ducked down a nearby alley when your back was turned. Don’t be paranoid.”

He set the casserole on the kitchen table, firmly planting his hands on either side of it before shutting his eyes tight and drawing in a deep, if ragged, breath. _It’s fine, he’s safe, this was a thank you gift and he’s just a paranoid bastard._ After a few moments he managed to calm down and peel his eyes back open, looking down at the casserole so graciously gifted to him. An aluminum pan with a sheet of aluminum foil over the top greeted his eyes, the stark white of an envelope anchored on top with a bit of masking tape.

“Of course,” Stan laughed to himself, peeling the envelope off. He flips it a few times in his hands before opening it and pulling out the single creased sheet of paper. He reads exactly one line and lets out a string of expletives.

Stan had never been great at most school subjects, math and science were best left to Ford, but he had a knack for languages that he always thought would make a good party trick. As he gazed balefully at the letter, he regretted exactly one thing: taking German instead of Spanish. He’d picked up enough words here and there on the road to make out his own name, his real name, alongside “thank you” and “grandson” and “family” but that was where understanding ended. The letter might as well be written in the same ciphers as the notes from his MREs.

With a heavy sigh, he tucked the letter back in the envelope and took the five steps across the narrow hall to his bedroom. Carefully, he nestled the fragile paper in a waxed canvas pouch with all the little notes he’d collected over the years. He had a feeling it might be just as important someday.

Then he went and dug into the casserole, wondering all the while how some strange family he had never met knew how much he loved a good chicken divan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed it and love Soos just as much as I do.


	5. Are You Sad Because You're On Your Own?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan gets by with a little help from his ~~friends~~ family. Shermie and Caryn aren't ignorant and Stan is grateful for that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clocking in at just over 4k this is the second-longest chapter. I just kept writing and it Wouldn't Stop. Enjoy.

Stanley Pines had been Stanford Pines, Man of Mystery for over a decade and he was no closer to figuring out all this portal bullshit than when he watched the terrified face of his twin brother get swallowed up by inky darkness.

Most of the time the research center become tourist trap hosted a slowly growing swarm of curious travelers interested in the fanciful oddities of the pacific northwest. And then the long cold months of late autumn and winter settled in, blocking him away from the world at large. He loved and hated those dark months for the time they gave him to work on the portal… and the time they left him alone with only his own thoughts for company.

He’d been fielding calls from his mother since February, starting with a terse message left on his answering machine to inform him his father had passed away and there was no need for him to break away from his research to come to the funeral. Since then he’d gotten at least one call every couple of weeks, asking how he was doing and what he was currently researching and if he was lonely up in his big empty house.

Stan didn’t have the heart to tell his mother it was a tourist trap now. The calls grew more and more personal as the months wore on, Stan trying not to fall apart every time his mother called him his brother’s name. Oftentimes afterword he would sit silently at his kitchen table, single journal spread out in front of him, ink blurring in front of his eyes. _I should tell her,_ he thought many times into the lengthening afternoons, but he never did. He just kept answering the phone with a gruff “Gravity Falls Research Center, Dr. Pines speaking” and hoped that the cadence of his voice didn’t give him away.

It had only ever been phonecalls, so when a knock sounded at his front door one autumn afternoon Stan was not prepared to find his mother standing on his doorstep, Shermie hovering not far behind. He stood shocked in the doorway, one hand still on the handle as his mother took one long look at him, plastered on smile fading into quiet but resigned sorrow.

“Oh, my little free spirit. What’s happened to you?”

 _What._ “What? No, ma… I’m Stanford.” Stan snapped his desperate eyes to meet Shermie’s shocked expression. “Are you ok? What are you even doing here?”

Caryn Pines let out an aggravated harrumph. “Honestly, the twin swap may have worked on your father, but it never worked on me, Stanley. I _am_ a professional liar after all.” She gently pushed past her son and took a look around the gift shop beyond. “Seems like that runs in the family.”

Her tone wasn’t accusatory but it felt like a dagger in his heart anyway. “Ma…” he started, but Caryn held up a hand to shush him.

“There’s no one else here, is there, Stanley?” she said softly, turning to look back at Stan. “Where’s you brother?”

Stan opened his mouth to lie one more time, like he did every day, but instead all that came out was a strangled sob that crawled it’s painful way out of his throat as the room swam in front of his eyes. In an instant Shermie and his ma were on either side of him, arms wrapped around him as his whole body shook. He tucked his face into his mother’s neck and cried for all the times he hadn’t been able to before.

Later, much later, after tears had given way to anger and shouting that burned out into helpless grief, he sat them down at the kitchen table and told his mother and sister the truth. Not all of the truth, he didn’t think he could bear the pity in their eyes if they knew how low he had truly sunk in his years of homelessness, but everything else came pouring from his lips in a torrent. He showed them the journal and his decade’s worth of useless notes. Shermie, whose brilliant mind had always been turned toward law instead of science, shook her head over her younger brothers’ combined scrawlings.

“Lee, I can’t make heads or tails of this.” She said after a long moment of flipping through page after page of detailed local survey notes. “You’re telling me Ford created some sort of _doomsday device_ and then accidentally went through it? This is all notes on some kind of magical black market and… unicorn glades? Honestly… your notes on some form of extradimentional molecular physics make more sense than this and I know you failed basic high school math.”

Stan leaned back in his chair, looking away from his family. “I had to teach myself a few tricks to even begin to understand half of what’s down there… Look, I know it sounds nuts. I thought Ford had lost his mind too, but nothing on this green earth could have prepared me for what’s underneath this shack.” It felt good to finally talk about the portal, despite the circumstances. “And yeah, I had to teach myself some really nerdy shit… oh, sorry ma. Some really nerdy nonsense to even begin to piece this thing back together. Actually, I’m surprised either of you believe me. I can barely believe me.”

“It sounds like just the kind of misadventure my two boys would get into.” Caryn smiled at him, though her eyes were still shadowed. After a moment, she reached across the table and laid her hand across her son’s. “I know you have a vivid imagination, darling, but as I said before, I am a professional liar. You might still be hiding some things about yourself, but I believe that every word you’ve said about this portal are true.”

Stan let out a ragged breath he wasn’t aware he had been holding. “Thanks, ma. It… It’s good to talk to someone about this.” He pushed back from the table and stood up, stretching until his back popped. “Come on, I’ll show you the bane of my existence.” Swallowing down every bitter hesitation, Stan led his family through the secret door and down into the bowels of the basement. With every step he could see Shermie’s jaw tightening and his ma’s grip on his elbow became a little more painful.

When at last they stood in front of the monstrous metal behemoth in the basement, Stan let out a shaky breath.

“Well,” he said. “This is it. Ford’s big project and my big headache.”

“Goddamn it, Ford,” swore Shermie and Stan jumped at the uncharacteristic swear falling from his sister’s lips, eyes darting towards his mother who didn’t so much as flinch. “You went and built yourself a damn stargate and didn’t even ask where it went.”

Stan blinked at his older sister. “A what?”

“Oh right,” Shermie smiled tightly at him. “You live in the sticks and I doubt your theater gets the good movies. Don’t worry about it.” She let her gaze drift back to the portal and then she squared her shoulders and turned fully to her brother. “Right then, Little Lee. How can we help?”

Stan blinked at his sister, all six foot plus of her with manicured nails and perfectly coiffed lawyer hair. “What do you mean ‘how can we help’? Don’t you have Don and the kids to get back to? A law office?”

Shermie snorted, waving a hand at her brother. “Don’t worry about them, slugger. Don has the situation well in hand and the law office practically runs itself these days. Ma and I came out here to visit you, well… to visit Ford, because we hadn’t seen you in a while. Figured you might need a helping hand, though I think we had more ‘experiment documentation’ in mind than ‘rescuing a wayward sibling from his own mistakes.’ We have time.” Shermie turned fully away from the portal and frowned at her brother. “Don’t go thinking I mean you. From what I’ve seen and what you’ve told us, Ford was in way over his head. Sure, you might have gotten into a spat but it’s his own hubris that caused this. Blame yourself all you want, I can’t stop you, but understand that this isn’t the mistake of just one person.”

Stan opened his mouth to object but snapped it shut as his ma squeezed his elbow. “Why don’t you stay down here with your sister and figure out what to do, hmm? I’ll go upstairs and see what I can pull together for dinner. I’d bet you haven’t had a decent home-cooked meal in years.”

Unbidden, thoughts of a mysterious casserole flitted across Stan’s memories and he smiled despite himself. “Yeah, it’s been a while.”

\-----

Shermie and Caryn ended up staying nearly a month and a half, helping Stan with the last few days of tourist season and lending him a hand to close up shop for the winter. He’s grateful for the help, relieved at how much easier it is with just a few more hands. He thought maybe he should hire someone once the new season rolled around, if he was honest with himself he’s getting a little old to do everything alone.

With the Shack closed, Caryn took to cleaning the building from top to bottom despite Stan’s protests.

“I doubt you or your brother ever dusted thoroughly,” she sniffed one morning as Stan caught her with her hair in a kerchief and a broom in her hand. “There are at least 15 years of dust in here, and if you had your way there would be 15 more.”

“Maaa…” Stan tried, and mostly failed, to keep the whine out of his voice. He was adult for fucks sake… but this _was_ his mother. “Ma it adds to the mysterious charm.”

Caryn had the audacity to snort. “You can keep the mysterious charm in the showroom where it belongs. Your living space deserves to be clean.”

Stan turned helplessly to Shermie, who leaned in the doorway with a cup of coffee gripped tight in her hands. She shrugged, “I can’t help you, bro-bro. She did the same thing at my house. Xander’s taken to locking his room so she can’t tidy up his painting supplies anymore.”

Stan vaguely recalled Shermie saying something about her eldest son being into painting DD&MD figurines. Figures the kid wouldn’t want his grandma in his stuff. He huffed out a quiet chuckle. “Yeah, Ma’s always been like this. Ford and I…” he paused, swallowing around the memory. It had been a long time since he’d talked about his twin in any context but the portal.

Shermie seemed to understand, nodding from her spot in the doorway. “I remember. You two had a horrendous mess in your room all the time, I don’t know how you didn’t lose things to Ma’s cleaning sprees.”

“Oh, they did,” Caryn said, leaning on her broom as she smiled at her children. “Just not anything important because they certainly didn’t miss any of it.” Stan opened his mouth to object but then recalled that if he asked for anything that had gone missing… it reappeared within the day. Ma must have held onto things to see what needed to stay and what needed to go.

It must have driven Filbrick up the wall that he couldn’t put things in the pawn shop immediately.

Caryn’s smile grew, eyes twinkling merrily. “Now, I still have a whole house to clean. Why don’t the two of you bundle up and go hunting for that journal you wanted to find? I can manage quite well enough on my own.”

Stan chuckled and left his ma to her cleaning spree. If they stuck around long enough they’d get put to work and he and Shermie had bigger plans for the day.

The crisp late September air hit him hard as he stepped out onto the back porch, tugging his dark blue sweater over his head. After almost two decades it was finally starting to wear out and Stan thought it might sooon be time to store it away as a keepsake. As he and Shermie headed off into the woods, he noticed his sister glancing curiously at him.

“What?” he asked, suddenly self-conscious. “Have I got something on my face or what?”

Shermie paused, tilting her head in consideration. “I was just wondering where that sweater came from.”

Stan instinctively hunched his shoulders, trying hard not to go on the offensive. “I dunno, some kid gave it to me back when I was on the road. Said she made it for somebody else but it didn’t fit them and she didn’t want it to go to waste. Why?”

“Well…” Shermie’s brow furrowed. “I was just looking at the piecing and tie-off techniques and they’re a little unusual.” She reached out and ran her finger along the seam where the sleeve met the shoulder. “Most of the time this is a more subtle join, but this raised seam is an intentional artistic choice. I wouldn’t have noticed but… it’s not a widely known joining stitch because it’s extremely difficult to perform cleanly. You said a kid gave you this sweater?”

“Yeah, almost twenty years ago.” Stan frowned at his sister. “Why, is something wrong?”

“No, it’s probably just a coincidence.” Shermie shook her head and smiled at her brother. “Don’t worry about it. Do you have the map? Show me where we’re looking today.”

Stan shook out the carefully graphed sheet of paper, pointing out the acre of woods he wanted to cover that day. Shermie leaned in, shaking off the curious shock of seeing a stitch she had invented only a few years ago on a garment older than her eldest child. There were more pressing things to worry about right now, starting with her wayward younger brother’s missing journals.

\-----

By mid-October it became clear that even with his family’s help Stan was getting no closer to completing the portal. Ma and Shermie had to head back to California soon and Stan had to start prepping for all his little seasonal jobs. He’d already started in on his Santa beard, amused and distressed in equal measure that in a couple years he probably wouldn’t have to comb powder through it at all anymore.

After another long day with no visible results, Stan excused himself early after dinner and went to bed. Caryn and Shermie watched him go with twin expressions of concern, but both knew he needed the rest. After they left, who would look after him?

Caryn waited until she heard her son’s familiar snores rattle down the hallway, then pulled a shoebox from under the table and slid it carefully over to Shermie.

“I found this while I was cleaning,” she said, voice steady and more serious than Shermie could ever remember it being. “I have some thoughts, but I need a second opinion.”

Shermie raised a curious eyebrow at her mother. “Does Lee know you’re going through his things?”

“It’s not like I found it stuffed in a closet or under his bed.” Caryn said, waving her hand towards the box. “But yes, I asked if I could look at it and he asked me to work on some codebreaking while the two of you were gallivanting across the county.”

“Codebreaking? Ma, what’s in this?” Not waiting for an answer, Shermie flipped open the lid and froze as she saw the picture laying on top of bundles of notes tied together with twine. The edges were tattered with years of grime, but the image was crisp and clear in a way that Shermie had never quite seen. With trembling fingers she reached in and pulled it out, staring hard at the two children. They looked so like her eldest son… “Lee has kids?”

Caryn shook her head. “I don’t think so, look at the back.”

Shermie flipped it over and read the short inscription. _A sweater…_ the sweater that Stan had been wearing for the past few weeks floated across her minds eye and she turned the photo back over. Idly tracing a finger over the kids’ faces she squinted at two gray-headed figures in the background. They were very blurry, almost intentionally so, but she could still make out her brother’s broad shoulders. Both of her brothers. But that meant…

“You think this photograph is from the future?” She asked incredulously, gaze snapping up to meet her ma’s pensive expression.

With a nod, Caryn reached in and pulled out a stack of notes, just a sentence or two each on small notecards. “This is what Stanley asked me to codebreak, since he knew Stanford and I shared a love of puzzles. I don’t have the key to the symbol cipher, but most of these are just a simple shift cipher. Look…” She slid one card across the table and Shermie squinted at the handwriting.

 _Lw'v udlqlqj wrgdb. L krsh brx'uh gub zkhuhyhu brx duh._ It was a little shaky but she and Stan had stared at Ford’s handwriting long enough that she knew it immediately. Normally his cursive was impeccable… Shermie didn’t dwell on all the reasons for it to not be. Underneath, her mother had added her translation in her own spidery script. _It's raining today. I hope you're dry wherever you are._

“They’re all like this.” Caryn said, neatly re-stacking the pile before tying a bit of twine around it. “The ones I could translate, anyway. Little well-wishes and encouragements, things that our Stanley of a decade ago would have scoffed at. Now… I think he needs them.” She tucked the cards back in the box. “I don’t know how or why Stanford got these notes to him but I am glad he did. Now if we could only get him back home safely…” She sniffed as her voice trailed off. “I mourned the wrong son for years, Shermie. I lost years with my boys.”

Shermie scooched her chair closer to her ma and pulled her tight into a one armed hug. “We’ll get him back. We have all the proof we need right here.” She was about to say more, something about telling Stan in the morning, when a sharp knock sounded at the back door.

Caryn frowned. “Now who could that be at this hour?” She scrubbed at her eyes and stood, a little unsteadily, to go open the door.

Beyond, in the weak light of the porch light, stood a man in a strange jumpsuit with a stark military haircut and a sharp, observant expression. He nodded curtly as the door swung open.

“Agent Jones with the Time Paradox Avoidance Enforcement Squadron, Ma’am. Can I come in?” When Caryn merely blinked owlishly at him he sighed, shoulders drooping. “I’m with the Time Police. I just need to speak with Caryn and Shermie Pines on behalf of Time Baby as…” He heaved another deep sigh. “A gesture of goodwill towards the preservation of the multiverse.”

Caryn blinked again, but gestured the man inside. “I am not sure I follow you, but if you don’t mean my family any harm I am sure we can have a polite discussion.”

“Thank you,” said Agent Jones, stepping into the kitchen. “I don’t need to stay long and despite what the children may have said I already know about their photograph.” He smiled and despite his austere appearance, the expression was warm on his face. “I’m here to ask a small favor on behalf of preserving the timeline and in return I am authorized to make you a promise.”

“You’re a timetraveller,” said Shermie, voice flat and pitched lower and more dangerous than Caryn had heard in years. “You have answers?”

“None I am authorized to give you, I’m afraid,” said the time cop, completely unphased by Shermie’s unspoken threat. His voice softened though when he spoke again. “Cooperate and you will learn everything in due time.”

He turned to Caryn. “Now, I know you worked hard on those translations but… Stanley Pines needs to do them on his own. Time Baby is willing to let you keep them for your personal use if you will allow us to switch them with some unaltered cards. In an ideal sequence we would have just removed the cards at their source with no party any the wiser, but our esteemed Time Baby owes your family a small fortune in favors.”

“I am not going to pretend I know half of what you’re saying,” replied Caryn slowly. “But I suppose it makes sense that this would be something he would need to do for himself. Alright. You can replace the cards if you’ll let me keep the originals. I want to take a crack at my son’s cipher.”

“Of course.” Agent Jones’ lips quirked in a small smile. “There is also the matter of your silence. I realize that the confirmation of time travel is a rather big deal but we at the Time Paradox Avoidance Enforcement Squadron would appreciate it if you could keep that secret under wraps. In exchange we are willing to guarantee health and unusually long life for your family to make up for lost time. Nothing fancy, just access to some higher-tech medical care and protection should you need it.”

Across the room Shermie furrowed her brow but Caryn looked Agent Jones dead in the eye and said, “Done. Our silence in return for seeing my family happy and whole someday.”

“Good.” The agent set down a pile of cards on the table. “Replace them with these. If you need us, we’ll come to you, don’t worry about contacting us. Other than that though…” He looked down the hall towards the stairs that led to Stan’s bedroom and his shoulder drooped minutely from their rigid formal stance. “This is a closed time loop. I can assure you everything will be alright, but in the meantime… I am sorry.”

With that cryptic and vaguely unsettling message, Agent Jones plucked a tape measure off his belt and with a practiced snap of metal and a flash of light vanished from the kitchen. Shermie and Caryn stood blinking away the afterimage for a few minutes before Caryn shook herself and turned to the little box on the table. With great deliberation she silently replaced her hard work with blank cards, pocketing the originals for later.

“Ma,” said Shermie, then repeated herself when Caryn didn’t answer. “Ma! Are we listening to some weird Time Guy? He could be, oh I don’t know… a shared hallucination.”

Caryn braced her hands against the table, voice cracking. “I can’t take that risk, dearheart. I want to see my son again. Besides…” she paused and fished a card out of the stack to hand to Shermie. “I already knew.”

The card was the same as all the others, but the code was a familiar one of squares and dots. Ford and Caryn had often left each other messages in this cipher when he was little, just as entertainment and as he got older a way to keep certain topics away from Filbrick. Below the simple blocks, Caryn had translated the text.

_Ma, I know you’re reading this._ _Nothing ever got past you._ _Agent Charlie Jones is going to offer you a trade. Take it, he’s one of the only competent Time Police. And Shermie… give Stan a hug for me._

Shermie looked up at her mother, eyebrows raised in surprise. Caryn smiled a little shakily. “It was the only one in our old code. Stanley never bothered to learn it so I figured it might be for me.”

“He… he’s gonna be alright.” Shermie breathed out, relieved but still troubled by the last apology of the Time Cop.

“I hope so, dearheart,” said her ma, reaching out and drawing her much taller daughter into a gentle hug. “I really do.”

\-----

Shermie and Caryn left at the beginning of November, having stayed long enough to help with the _ONE DAY ONLY HALLOWEEN TOUR EXTRAVAGANZA_ Stan hosted every year. One last hurrah before he winterized the gift shop door and closed the showroom until spring.

After everyone had finally headed home from the party (closer to dawn than dusk), Shermie and Stan thumped down the stairs to the basement one last time and stood staring up at the dark portal.

“I’m sorry I can’t help anymore, little brother.” She slung an arm around Stan’s shoulders, pulling him close against her side. Stan squawked briefly in protest but then slumped into the embrace.

“Nah, I get it. You’ve got your own family to get back to.” Stan fidgeted a bit, staring off to into the shadows. “What are you going to tell them? I’m not exactly the safest person to know about.”

“I’m not going to tell them anything, bro-bro.” Shermie’s arm tightened. “You don’t want them to know and while I don’t understand, I’m gonna respect that.”

“Thanks.” Stan’s voice was subdued in the darkness and they trailed off into silence for long minutes, looking up at the dead hunk of metal that haunted both their dreams.

Finally, Stan sighed and leaned his head on his sister’s shoulder. “Sherms… do you think I’ll ever get this damn thing working and get Ford back?”

Shermie thought back to the two laughing figures in the back of that strangely glossy photograph, older and more worn for sure, but the happiest she’s ever seen them. “Yeah. Without a doubt, Lee. You’ll bring him home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, it didn't fit in the narrative but Shermie is trans! As is her husband! Someday I will write about badass lawyer Shermie Pines when she's not getting one or both of her brothers out of hot water XD


	6. A Swift Kick in Your Own Pants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you need the help of your family, but sometimes you just have to help yourself. With the help of a time tape, that can be quite the literal statement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The last and longest chapter! I was gonna post it yesterday but I had some last minute changes to make so I pushed the update to today. Enjoy!

Stan remembers the dingy bar down by the wharves like it was yesterday. He remembers walking in – tired and sore and just wanting a stiff drink to dull the clusterfuck of the past week – and seeing an old man in a red beanie watching him from his stool at the end of the counter.

He remembers meeting himself, older and wiser and happier… and buying himself a pint.

Now he’s the one sitting on the worn stool at the end of a bar even dingier than his memories recall, sipping whatever lukewarm swill counts for beer in this dump, and waiting for his younger self to stumble through the creaking door. He subtly checks his watch again, just a few more moments, and listens to the quiet _shhh_ of the rain outside the streaky windows.

Right on time his younger self stumbles through the door. Stan glances up and immediately has to suppress a pained wince. His counterpart looks rougher than he remembers: black eye, split lip, dead expression. Stan barely remembers what his mindset was that week, he’s done enough research to know that when you’re depressed enough your memories just don’t form right… so it might be there was never enough to recover after the memory gun. But he can tell just at a glance that losing those memories for good might be the only positive thing to come out of the whole mess.

The blessing and curse of a fixed time loop are one and the same. Everything happens exactly the same way, every time, with no exceptions unless someone meddles. And when the loop has been approved by Time Baby himself? Well, no one is quite that foolish. Stan can’t quite remember what happened when he was on the other end of this exchange – a husk of a man barely making ends meet and living from one motel to another in a long string of lumpy mattresses and burnt out lights – but he can remember that what he said left an impact. So he settles his shoulders and waves himself over.

“Join an old man for a drink, son,” he says, pulling out the stool beside him with one booted foot.

His younger face looks back at him with suspicion, edging a little closer but not yet sitting down. He squints at Stan’s face and Stan is suddenly reminded that this was around the time his vision had finally started to go a little blurry. He’d sorely needed glasses only a few years later but for now he’s grateful he’s not recognized.

“Do I know you?” says younger Stan and _holy_ _M_ _oses_ it’s weird hearing his own voice come out of someone else’s mouth.

“Nah, I’m just a lonely old man havin’ a drink and you looked like you could use a friendly face.” He shoves the stool out a little farther. “Have a seat.”

The young man eyes him warily, but slides onto the stool. He leaves one foot dangling for a quick getaway and Stan snorts quietly behind his beer. He might not be quite that bad anymore, but he’s still not sitting with his back to the door. Some habits last a lifetime.

“What brings you here on such a gross night, kid?” He raises a hand to flag down the bartender, who he’d already tipped generously to keep the beer flowing. A few moments later, two fresh glasses slide into view. Stan takes his and taps the other with a fingertip. “For you, looks like you need it.”

The younger man’s mouth falls open a little, suspicious shock written clearly in his eyes. “I… thank you? I’m just passing through on my way to New Mexico. An old friend said he might have some work for me so…” He shrugged and took a long swig from his glass.

Stan doesn’t remember the current conversation with any remarkable clarity, but the job Rico had offered him… he remembers that all too well. He suppresses a full-body shudder and instead plasters a lazy smile across his face. “Between jobs then? All the more reason to have a drink.” He tilts his glass towards his younger self and his smile broadens to a grin as the younger man hesitantly clinks their beers together.

“Cheers to prospective employment, old man.” He says with a grin, eyes sparking with the first hint of amusement since he walked through the door. “You got a name I can call you, since we’re drinking buddies now?”

This, Stan remembers: the glowing amusement of sharing a name with a stranger. “Lee. And you?”As he recalled, his counterparts face lights up.

“Heh, well wouldn’t you know it, sharing drinks and a name.” The younger man relaxes against the countertop, tapping his fingers against his glass. “So, I told you what I’m doing here, now you tell me.”

“Fair enough,” concedes Stan. “Would you believe me if I told you I’m just an old man with nothing better to do with my time?” He chuckles at the raised eyebrow sent his way and gives his carefully prepared answer. “Nah, I’m actually just stopping by on a bit of shore leave. I’m a deckhand on a research vessel, not a lot of opportunities for a decent pint on the open sea.”

His companion snorts. “You came the wrong place if you want decent.” He stares into his half-empty glass for a moment and then asks, voice quiet, “You’re a deckhand? Where’ve you sailed?”

Stan feels his heart break a little for his younger self, knowing how far he’s come and how far he has left to go. How much hope he still holds onto that someday Ford will want to finally get on a boat. How in only a few short weeks everything will come crashing down around his ears. How, despite everything, he’ll turn out ok. Mostly. His throat feels tight but he swallows it down.

Somehow, he doesn’t let his emotions show on his face, merely launches into a mostly true tale of the time he and Ford got stuck on an uncharted island for a week because a baby kraken decided to get between them and their boat. He changes names and locations smoothly and grins to himself when he realizes the kid thinks he’s talking out his ass. Stan spins a few more stories after that, increasingly fantastic but all true, and swallows down the discomfort he feels when he realizes his younger self didn’t remember a single one.

In return, the younger man tells some of his own stories. Some of them Stan remembers with crystal clear clarity (pug-running in Alabama) and others time or pure bullshit have stripped from his mind (getting chased out of a corn-field with nothing but his boxers on). He leans on one elbow and listens attentively, marveling that he ever made it far enough in life to sit here drinking with himself.

After a while the two trail off into companionable silence, the rain outside a little less loud against the window. Stan stares down into his empty glass for a few long moments, considering. The time tape weighs heavy in his pocket and there are no other patrons in the bar. The bartender isn’t paying them much attention and has already been paid… so now’s as good a time as any.

“Hey, kid.” Stan starts, turning to look at himself. “I’m just gone enough that I’ve got some words of wisdom for you. They’re things I wish I’d been told at your age… _am_ telling myself at your age I guess, so I sure hope you remember them.”

His younger counterpart shoots him a suspicious side-eye. “You alright there, pops? You’re starting to sound like you’re more than gone enough.”

He isn’t really, but the kid doesn’t need to know that. He’s been nursing the same beer for hours now and isn’t even buzzed, though that might make this easier. Out of everything, every word and story and bits of lost time, this is the exchange that had burned itself into his brain. He remembers feeling a hot rush of fear, followed swiftly by burning anger, and then replaced a few weeks later by horrified understanding. Stan takes a deep breath and tries his best.

“There’s gonna come a time, probably someday soon, when you’re going to have to make a choice. Since I’m still here, I’m pretty sure you make the right one but… I want you to know that no matter what you do or where you go, you are important. You touch so many people’s lives in ways you could never even imagine. You are worth so, so much and I hope that someday you can find it in your heart to forgive yourself. It took me a long time to get there, but I believe in you.”

His companion sits ramrod straight next to him, mouth hanging open in wordless confusion. Stan chuckles and claps him on the shoulder as he stands up, fishing in his pocket for the time tape. Behind the bar, the bartender still has his back turned, so if Stan wants to go he needs to go _now._

He takes a few steps back to minimize risk of contact, though with a closed time loop like this accidents probably won’t happen. Carefully, he pulls out a few measured inches and flips off the safety.

“Take care of yourself, Stanley.”

“Wait!” The young man’s voice is panicked, pleading as he shakes off his frozen state and starts scrambling off the bar stool. “Who are you? How do you know my name?”

Stan smiles softly, and for the first time in a long time it isn’t even a little forced. “I’m you.” And he lets go of the tape.

\------

With barely a flicker Stan reappears in the same horrible seedy bar he’d just left, even more horrible and seedy with 30 years of added grime. At the counter, his brother sits nursing swill that has not improved with age. The bartender, having been handed several large bills, is nowhere to be seen.

“How did it go?” says Ford, glancing over to where Stan still stood, smile fading from his face.

“It… it went, Ford.” Stan rubs tiredly at his face and isn’t surprised when his fingers come back damp. “Fuck. I’d… I’d forgotten just how _bad_ it had all gotten right before you sent for me.”

Ford’s shoulders go stiff. “Forgotten… Stan, if you still had gaps you shouldn’t have gone back! What if you’d relapsed in the past!”

“No, no!” Stan waves one hand dismissively, scrubbing the other against his traitorous eyes. “Not like that. I lost… I lost a lot of those years long before I ever got you back. Apparently being depressed and malnourished does funny things to your brain... and you stop thinking right now, I can see it in your eyes.”

Stan watches Ford’s face crumple as he strolls as casually as he can to the bar. He leans against the counter and Ford presses into his side with a shuddering breath. “I’m sorry, Lee,” he says after a moment, voice choked and quiet. “I know we can’t change anything more than we already have but…”

He trails off and swallows hard. Stan wraps an arm around his shoulder. “Yeah, I know. You don’t need to keep apologizing. We know it’s a fixed time loop. What has happened will happen and is going to happen.” He made a face. “And I never want to say that sentence again. My brain hurts.”

This pulls a wet chuckle from his brother. “When did you get so smart, knucklehead?”

“Oh, I dunno,” says Stan with a grin. “Long about the time I cracked your equation concerning string theory. Did you know if you hadn’t carried the decimal wrong you might have ended up in a dimension entirely made of cheese?”

“Fuck you,” grumbles Ford, lightly shoving Stan away from him. “We both know that you made the cheese dimension up.”

He doesn’t contradict Stan about the decimal place though.

A throat clearing behind them has the two men turning to greet a rather perturbed looking Time Cop. Stan’s grin widens.

“Agent Jones! So nice of you to meet us.” He takes in the way Jones is looking around the bar as if it has personally offended him. “Let me guess, whenever you’re from this bar still has the same terrible taste in décor.”

Jones takes a minute to sneer at the scenery. “Actually, no. This might be an improvement.”

“Welp,” Stan says after a beat of awkward silence. “Glad to know the more things change the more they stay the same.” He lifts his hand and holds out the time tape. “As promised, it’s in one piece.”

The time cop takes the tape and inspects it anyway before hooking it onto his belt with a pleased grunt. “Thank you. The Time Paradox Avoidance Enforcement Squadron and Time Baby thank you for your cooperation in keeping the timeline stable. Consider our debt as repaid as possible.”

He’s pulling his personal tape off his belt as Stan takes a hesitant step forward and asks, “How is Time Baby, by the way?”

“In your time? Probably cold. He’s stuck in that glacier for about another millennium.” Jones shrugs at them. “In my time? Pissed off that he let himself get disintegrated. It’ll probably be a couple generations before he calms down again. He is grateful though. Without your help he would be gone for good.”

Stan nods thoughtfully. “Well, pass on our thanks to him. Maybe that’ll buy you a couple days without tantrums.”

A true smile plays at Jones’ lips. “Maybe. We’ll be in touch.”

A quick tap of the time tape and the Time Cop is whisked away to who knows when. Stan and Ford both let out breaths they didn’t realize they were holding.

“That man is the only competent member of his entire force,” says Ford into the empty air.

Stan nods, contemplating the afterimage burned into his retinas. “Gonna have to agree with you there.” He tilts his head considerately towards his twin. “Lets get back to the boat and finish our trek home. There’s something I need to show you and the kids.”

\-----

Summer in Gravity Falls always feels like a liminal space. It feels like coming home to a place you never truly left, like hitting the reset button in a game you didn’t know you were playing. Like one fateful sunny day frozen in time. Part of that probably has to do with the two figures waiting on the shack steps as Stan rolls to a stop on familiar gravel. He takes two steps away from his beloved Stanleymobile and is immediately bowled over by an extremely enthusiastic teenage girl. Three steps behind and only a little less visibly enthusiastic, Dipper sidles up to Ford and wraps his arms around him.

“Pumpkin, you’re gonna need to let me go if you want your presents,” grunts Stan from where he’s fallen against the side of his car, pinned in place by a rather violent hug. Mabel immediately releases him in favor of bouncing in place and screaming.

“Presents? You brought presents!?” her voice is reaching octaves Stan hadn’t realized was possible and he tries to hide his wince as his hearing aid shrieks.

He reaches out and ruffles her hair in an attempt to calm her down. “What, you thought we’d travel the world and not bring back any souvenirs? I’m hurt, sweetheart.” He softens his words with a smile, and nods towards the shack. “Actually, if you let us unload the car, I’ve got a surprise already inside.”

Dipper’s eyes narrow even as he lets himself be laden down with a box of research materials. “How is it inside? You just got here.”

Stan grins at him and waggles his finger exaggeratedly. “Nuh uh, don’t think to hard about it, kiddo. You and your smart brain will figure it out and ruin my careful planning.”

Ford, coming up behind Dipper with his own box, chuckles. “Kids, he wouldn’t even tell me what it is, though I have an educated guess. The sooner we get everything inside, the sooner Stanley can show us whatever it is he’s so excited about.”

The two technically teens and their grunkles haul boxes of research materials and a couple duffle bags of essentials up into the Shack. Dipper and Mabel have already set up shop in the attic and Soos had cleared out Ford’s old thinking parlor as a spacious guest suite for Stan and Ford. Stan and his aching knees are both grateful to be on the ground floor.

Soos himself is waiting for them in the kitchen as they pass through. He greets Ford with a cheery wave before crushing Stan into a fierce hug, nearly making him drop the duffle bag slung over his shoulder. Stan laughs and ruffles Soos’s hair with his free hand.

“Glad to be home too, gumdrop. Now put your old man down before we both fall over.”

Soos obliges, a sheepish smile spread across his face. “It’s good to have the whole family under one roof. Was pretty empty without you, yaknow?”

“Eh, sometimes I miss the peace and quiet.” Stan says, though the words are teasing more than truthful. He tilts his head, considering. “You find that trunk I asked you about yesterday?”

“Oh!” Soos startles with a sheepish laugh. “I nearly forgot to tell you, I got so excited about everyone coming home. It was right where you said it might be, so I put it on your bed. I promise I ‘kept my grubby paws off it’ just like you asked..”

Stan lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Thanks, kiddo.” He glances at the rest of his family, gazes curious on him and he huffs out a bit of a laugh. “Lemme take the rest of this stuff to the bedroom and then I’ll meet you all in the kitchen, alright? You too, Soos. Pretty sure this concerns my whole family, adopted son-ployees included. Kinda wish I’d thought to call Ma and Shermie but…”

He misses the look Dipper and Mabel share as he pads down the hall and into the study turned bedroom. Sure enough, a small cedar chest sits on top of the worn quilt. With a sigh, Stan drops his duffel by the foot of the bed and reaches out to smooth one calloused sailor’s hand over the relief-carved wood. Briefly, very briefly, he thinks about making some excuse and laughing off the feelings he intends to share but… no. His family deserves to know how much they’ve shaped his life. He deserves to acknowledge how much his family loves him.

He scoops up the chest, it never weighed much and with all the exercise he’s been getting on the Stan O’ War it seems to weigh even less. For a moment, he stares at the carved forest that wraps around the sides. The box had been plain when he bought it, but he spent the dark months of one long winter carving the treeline into the wood. He hadn’t meant for it to be symbolic, but now that the box contains as much of his heart as the Shack… it’s fitting that they have the same trees watching over them.

When Stan carries the chest into the kitchen he nearly drops it when he sees more faces than he expected sitting at the table. Ford and Soos sit at one end, chatting over some small mechanical bit, while Dipper and Mabel perch on the edges of their seats, watching the door with glittering excitement in their eyes. At the other end of the table, Ma and Shermie merely grin their Cheshire cat grins at him.

“Where… when did you get here? I didn’t see another car in the drive.” Stan sets the chest down on the table and goes to hug his Ma and sister, who return his hug just as warmly.

“I had Don drop us and the kids off and sent him into town for some groceries,” said Shermie, reaching up to ruffle her brother’s hair. “Soos is a good kid, but he’s not prepared to feed seven extra mouths, even just for a day.”

Stan nodded, “You’re right. He is a good kid. They’re all good kids.” He clapped his hands once and then rubbed them together. “Right then! I had something I was gonna show you all.”

He reached for the chest and paused, fingertips drumming nervously against the top. Clearing his throat, mouth suddenly dry, he looked across the table at his assembled family. “I’m not good at this kind of sappy nonsense,” he says, looking at a point somewhere above his Ma’s head so he doesn’t have to look any of them in the eye. “But since we’re finally out of the world’s biggest closed time loop… I wanted to show you all how much of a difference you’ve made over the past 40 years of my life.”

Swallowing against his rising nerves, Stan unlatches the lid of the chest and tips it open, eyes meeting worn navy wool for the first time in months. Reverently, he lifts his oldest and most cherished sweater and holds it out to Mabel. “I knew it was you as soon as your pa set you in my arms and told me your name. I just didn’t know when or how until I saw you knitting this on a video call a few weeks ago.”

Mabel takes the sweater from him, gentle fingers running over familiar stitches stretched out with time and wear. The wool has barely faded, somehow remaining colorfast in the face of decades of regular washing though there are snags and small holes stitched back together with inexpert hands. She looks up at Stan, tears welling in her eyes.

“You kept it. I didn’t think…”

“I kept all of it, sweetpea.” Stan said gently. “Even though I didn’t know until you were born that they were gifts from family…” He swallows hard and gazes out across the table. “The kindness of strangers that turned out to be not strangers, but my own family… your kindness helped me through some of the roughest parts of my life and I am so incredibly grateful.”

Dipper leans over to say something to Mabel, who is making a valiant effort to pull the much larger navy sweater on over her own bright purple one, and Stan rounds on him as his next target. “Do you know how infuriatingly funny it is to know someone’s nickname before it’s ever given to them, kiddo? I had to bite my tongue every time your parents called for _nearly a decade_ until you finally started going by it.”

His nephew has the good sense to look a little bit chastised. “Did the money help, Grunkle Stan? You’d talked about how hard it was sometimes, so Mabel and I took notes on likely days and Grunkle Ford and I tried to get bills that predated the year we picked… but we weren’t sure because you never mentioned anything…”

Stan can tell that Dipper is about to hit a longwinded panicky ramble and he holds up a placating hand. “Dipper. You couldn’t have picked a better time. I’d just spent the last of my money on a hospital bill I couldn’t talk my way out of. What you gave me fed me and kept me dry for the next month.” He thinks for a second and then chuckles. “I wonder if there are two copies of those bills out there or if the Time Cops tidied that situation up.”

At this there’s a confused groan Soos. “Dude, my brain hurts,” he says, rubbing at his temples with both hands. “Does anyone else’s brain hurt? This time travel stuff is weird.”

Stan stares down the table at his son-ployee. “Time travel is weird, huh?” he says flatly, though the twitching smile at his lips gives him away. “You know what’s weird? Getting a letter in a language you can’t read that when you eventually manage to translate sums up to _‘thank you for taking care of my grandson and adopting him into your family, have a casserole_ ’. At the time I thought I must finally be losing my mind but now…” Stan finds he’s having a hard time maintaining eye contact and glances away, eyes flitting towards the treeline beyond the kitchen window. “Tell your Abuelita thank you for the casserole. It saved me from having to eat more of Ford’s… lovingly prepared MREs.”

“Speaking of which…” Stan rounds on his twin. “When you vanished on a ‘personal errand’ for nearly a week after _physically blocking me from the galley for hours on end_ I was finally certain I knew what was up. Don’t think I didn’t witness that first conversation with Agent Jones, Poindexter. You aren’t as sneaky as you think you are.”

Ford’s indulgent smile morphs into an affronted frown. He opens his mouth with some likely-smart-aleck response, but instead lets out a quiet _oof_ as Shermie elbows him hard in the ribs. Rubbing at the sore spot and shooting a glare at his sister, Ford takes a moment before speaking with a little more thought. “Yes, Stanley. I… I spent that week helping the kids deliver their presents and hiding the various MRE caches. I realize now that I could have simply asked for your help in calculating their locations, since you figured me out.”

Stan snorts. “Oh, is that what all the swearing was about? I thought you were trying to triangulate Atlantis or something.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” scoffs Ford, wrinkling his nose in mock disgust. “I calculated that for fun in the 70s.”

“Of course,” says Stan faintly, reaching in the box and pulling out the twine-wrapped notecards. He runs his thumb across the bundle, watching the age-yellowed edges fan against themselves. After a moment he speaks again, voice once again choked with an emotion he isn’t sure how to name. “Ma helped me with some of these but… I did most of them on my own. I’m glad you put all the sensitive shit behind ciphers because some of this could have landed me in a whole lot of extra hot water with the government. But…” Stan looks up at his twin. “I’m also glad you left the ones I really needed in plain old English.”

Ford thinks about how he’d stayed up late into the night, fingers cramping as he tried to write encouragements across hundreds of notecards. All but the last one in every cache he’d randomized like a fortune cookie, which reminds him…

“Did you ever eat the last one?”

“What?”

“Did you ever eat the last meal? The note in that one was… relevant.” Ford looks away, unable to meet Stan’s eyes. There’s a rustle from end of the table and then a still-packaged MRE slides down to gently land against his elbow.

“It was peanut butter and jelly. I couldn’t bear to eat one more of those and then you sent me the postcard and I figured I’d just eat when I got here.” Stan’s voice is tinged with both humor and regret. “Open it if you want. I doubt even your mystery ‘nutrient bars’ can last 30 years.”

Ford shakes his head and pushes the package back towards his brother. “I can’t. You should read it.”

Stan raises an eyebrow at him but tears open the package all the same. Sure enough, the water has taken on a slightly cloudy appearance and the nutrient bar could probably be used as a lethal weapon but Stan would bet actual money that the two cherry starbursts are still good to eat. He ignores the rest of the contents though for the simple white card that slips into his hand. Unlike all the others, this card is signed and Stan’s breath hitches as he reads the eight words in his brother’s familiar handwriting.

_I’ll see you soon. And I’m sorry. - Stanford_

The words swim in front of Stan’s eyes and he clears his throat several times as he carefully places the card into the chest next to a bright photograph of two smiling children. “It’s… It’s probably for the best I didn’t get that one, Ford. Closed time loop and whatnot.”

“Oh.” Ford’s voice is small and Stan can’t bear it. In two steps he’s around the table and wrapping his twin in a fierce hug.

“Hey, it’s alright. I got it now, didn’t I?” Ford nods against Stan’s chest and Stan rests his chin on top of his twin’s head, looking out across the table at the rest of his gathered family. He lets a shaky but genuine smile spread across his face. “I’m not great at this feelings thing, but I’ve wanted to thank all of you for a very long time.”

Shermie sniffs and the next thing Stan knows he’s buried under a pile of crying relatives. When Shermie’s husband pushes through the kitchen door several minutes later, they’re all still clustered together, Stan at the center as his family’s warmly beating heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE END
> 
> Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this feel free to comment here or message me on [tumblr](http://3hobbitsinatrenchcoat.tumblr.com)!

**Author's Note:**

> And we're off! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, I can't wait to post the rest. If you want to flail at me about the Pines family you can leave a comment below or message me on [tumblr](http://3hobbitsinatrenchcoat.tumblr.com)!


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